


Changing Lanes

by missmollyetc



Series: Mirror, Mirror [2]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Hey Pose," Tim called out, laughing.  "Pose, come on, get over here!"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing Lanes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Telesilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/gifts).



> Written for the ‘Add we just caught our alternate universe selves making out and now everything is super awkward” to list of shipping tropes that need to be implemented everywhere” prompt:’

Buster shut off the lights as he closed the door to the video room, waiting for the click of the automatic lock before moving on down the hall. Bob was such a damn stickler for security, as if anybody with half an inkling to see tape on one of the guys couldn't get a copy with a halfway decent laptop and an internet connection. He sighed, scratching the underside of his jaw as he walked. They'd probably reach the same damn conclusions he always came up with too.

Above him, the lights flickered, one of the light bars going black with a zinging snap that had Buster hunching his shoulders as he looked up. Buster paused, moving to the far wall, and took a slow breath. It smelled like the beach after a hard rain, suddenly, like he was breathing more fog than air. All at once, the lights crackled and surged again, shining down hard enough to force him to squint, and then abruptly settled. 

He looked up and down the empty hallway, and realized he was crouching against the wall, hands spread along the sticky painted concrete. He straightened up with a harsh cough, rubbing his hands up and down his shirt. He glanced through one of the open doors nearest him; he could hear Romo and Cain laughing, the quick rumble of Bum's voice underneath, and took a step in their direction.

"Hey Pose," Tim called out, laughing. "Pose, come on, get over here!"

Buster turned his head, and felt his eyebrows pinch together. The door to the supply room was open across from him, but the light wasn't on. What was Tim doing in there?

"Knock it off, Buster, you gonna make me do everything myself?" Tim asked, half-breathless with laughter. "Come on."

"Oh sure, like you need my help," Buster said, groaning. "Fine, Mr. Big Shot."

Buster was already out of the hallway, past the door and into the supply room, chuckling to himself, before he realized he hadn't actually spoken. He froze, and grabbed for one of the free-standing metal shelves. He could hear laughter, there was light further down, near the back wall, but that'd...that had been his voice, but he hadn't said...and come to think of it, Tim hadn't sounded that happy in more time that Buster really liked to consider.

And he could still hear him, them, talking about lunch of all fucking things. This had to be a prank.

"All right, Bum cut it out," Buster said, frowning. He pushed off from the wall, and moved towards the light flickering against the wall. "Guys, what's the fucking big..." On the wall, a window about the size of a poster glowed, light spilling out of its edges and casting shadows on the stacks of shoeboxes on the shelves. People were moving in the center of the window, standing near each other, kinda too near.

"We've had turkey three times this week, man," Tim’s voice was saying. Buster squinted, and clenched his hand around the shelf’s stand. Tim was _in the window._ "All I'm asking for here is, like, roast beef or something. Pastrami. A fucking ham and cheese!"

He laughed as he said it, and Buster pushed off from the shelf to walk closer to that sound, wiping his hand across the front of his t-shirt. Tim was leaning back on a kitchen countertop Buster didn't recognize, and shaking the long hair Buster absolutely did not miss back over his shoulder. And Buster—it wasn't him, it couldn’t be _him_ —the Buster in the window was cocking his head and putting his hands in his front pockets, rocking up onto his toes, and shaking his head.

Buster glanced down. They were wearing the same black t-shirt and jeans, him and his freaky mirror image, and Tim was dressed in the plaid shirt Buster was pretty sure he'd thrown in the wash that morning, and those fucking holey jeans he'd paraded around in until they'd disintegrated. Only that couldn't be right. Tim and him were friends, but they were damn sure not the sort of friends who wore each other's clothes, much less be barefoot.

"We've got leftovers!" Window Buster said, smiling in a way Buster didn’t like to think on. "I refuse to be the sort of person who lets good food go bad."

"Then give it to Cy!" Window Tim said, grinning. "You know he'll eat anything."

"Not until he learns not to eat my belt," Window Buster said.

"Because that's my chew toy, right?" Window Tim asked, and pulled Window Buster right against his front, angling his face up for--for a God damned kiss.

Buster stretched out his right hand, sinking his fingers into the window. He hit nothing at all, passed straight through where the concrete should have been, to nothing but blank space and cold air, and then something crawled across his palm and _bit._

He yanked his arm free, straight through the image of himself and Tim, and jumped back. "Fuck, oh fucking shit," he yelled, curling his arm against his stomach and squeezing his hand into a fist. Pins and needles flashed up and down his muscles, but he didn't feel like he was bleeding.

He bent over at the waist, head falling down, while the Window People kept murmuring and then stopping and still arguing about fucking sandwiches in between long pauses he was pretty sure was more kissing and--

"What the fuck is going on in here?" Tim asked, and Buster glared up at the Window.

Where Window Tim was very clearly not in any position to be talking, unless he was doing it around Window Buster's tongue. Well, shit. He uncurled slowly, keeping his right arm pressed against his stomach. Buster pressed his lips together, turning his head as Tim walked up next to him. The hood of his hoodie was pulled low on his head again, one mangled tassel hanging low on Tim's chest. His hands were deep in the pockets, stretching the fabric.

"It's not mine," Buster said. "I mean, I just heard you, uh, say my name--"

"Before or after the tongue?" Tim asked, and the hood dipped at little forward.

"Uh, before," Buster said, glancing over at the Window. Window Buster had his hands around the back of Window Tim's neck, thumbs brushing the skin behind his ears. Buster's chest ached a little; he dropped his right arm to his side, clenching and unclenching his fist.

Buster looked back as Tim nodded. He took his hands out of his pockets, and crossed his arms across his hoodie, outlined by the light from the Window. Buster turned on his heels, shifting his weight back and forth. He should have been used to Tim not being the same, not squirming on his feet or constantly finding something to fiddle with, or humming much of anything, but it still sat oddly with him. Trying something new wasn't supposed to be so total, was it?

Window Buster leaned back suddenly, and Buster jerked his head. He’d been staring.

"I don't care how many times you do that, I'm not changing my mind," Window Buster said.

Window Tim and Real Tim both snorted. Buster frowned at him. Real Tim pulled his hood down, and the light from the Window curled around the bare nape of his neck. The curves of his mouth were too thin as he watched the Window.

"Fake me's got you down," Real Tim said.

"What, you want me to stop trying?" Window Tim asked, grinning up at Window Buster and laying both of his arms over Window Buster's shoulders.

Buster shook his head, flushing as Window Buster said, "Nah, practice makes perfect," and tapped his finger against his own lips.

The Window people went back to making out, and Buster couldn't--didn't want to look away from it, these other people in a kitchen he didn't recognize, easy with each other in a way he could never seem to manage with his--with Real Tim. He'd been full of nerves since day one, and desperate not to let it show, and by now it was just habit to snap when maybe he oughta soothe or, hell, maybe this Other Him just had a Tim who listened.

"You come in here for this a lot?" Real Tim asked, and Buster startled, taking a step to the side.

"What? No!" He felt himself blush, and hoped to hell Real Tim couldn't see it. "What kinda jerk do you think I am?"

Tim shrugged, still watching the Window. He licked his lips, just a quick flicker of tongue.

"I've never seen this before in my life," Buster insisted, stepping forwards.

"It is pretty tame for porn," Tim said, "but hey, if you wanna get your rocks off to...uh."

He trailed away, and Buster sucked in air through his nose. "Yeah, 'uh,'" he repeated. "Look, of the two of us, who's more likely to be tripping?"

"I just got here," Tim said, shrugging again. His shoulders seemed to be taking awhile to come down. "This shit's all you, man."

"I didn't do anything!" Buster said, jerking his arms up at the sky.

Tim glanced at him, finally, a quick flash of his eyes, and Buster shut his mouth. His bit his lips together, and put his hands on his hips. His right was fading off into numbness, thank fuck. 

"Tim," he said, and stopped. His throat felt thick.

Real Tim was just looking at him, the same way he looked at everything these days, like he was already seeing the end of the conversation before it’d begun. Buster hated it. He glanced away.

In the Window, he had Tim on the counter now, stepping in between his knees, and laughing into the side of his neck. Buster could almost feel that, the roughness of Tim's jeans under his fingers, and the salt of his skin on his tongue. He'd had a few thoughts as a rookie, a few nights with Tim's name caught between his teeth. They didn't look younger in the Window, they looked almost like the people he and Tim were now.

He turned back. It’d never really just been a few nights. Tim's face looked paler, lit from only one side, a little thinner, but set in its lines. Buster raised his practically numb hand, his fingers still shaking with aftershocks, and touched the center of Tim's chest with his fingertips.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Do you want to go get some lunch?"

The Window flickered, and went out.


End file.
